The day started as any other in Musanze. Rwandan sunlight, sharp and clean, cut through the morning mist clinging to the volcanic slopes.
Bees, the ordinary kind, already hummed their tireless songs around the flowering bushes, oblivious to the dread that would soon descend.
Emmanuel, a man whose face carried the gentle lines of forty-one years lived under this sun, woke with the familiar ache in his knees, a souvenir from his days farming potatoes on the steep hillsides.
He stepped outside his small house, the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke greeting him. His children, two girls and a boy, were still asleep, their small forms bundled under thin blankets.
His wife, Mireille, was already stirring the embers in the outdoor hearth, preparing the morning's tea. Life was simple, marked by the predictable rhythm of seasons and family.
But today felt different, a subtle shift in the air, a quiet unease that prickled at the edges of his senses. He could not place it, nothing tangible had changed, yet a tremor of apprehension ran through him.
He shook it off, attributing it to a sleepless night troubled by a recurring dream of shadowy figures in a dense forest. Dreams meant little in the face of daily realities.
"The children still sleep soundly," Mireille said, her voice a soft murmur as she added more wood to the fire. The flames licked upwards, casting dancing shadows on her face.
Her eyes, usually bright with warmth, held a faint cloud of worry that morning. He noticed it but decided against mentioning his own unease. Worry shared sometimes grew, becoming a heavier burden.
He busied himself fetching water from the communal tap a short walk from their home. The village was quiet, only a few people stirring, their movements slow and deliberate in the cool morning air.
Usually, by this time, the market square would be starting to come to life, vendors setting up their stalls, the early morning bustle of commerce. Today, a strange stillness.
As he returned with the water jug balanced on his head, he saw old man Rumongi sitting on his porch, staring at something in the distance.
Rumongi, the village elder, whose eyes had seen too many seasons, whose silence held more stories than words. Emmanuel paused, concern tugging at him. Rumongi rarely sat idle in the mornings, his hands usually busy with mending fishing nets or carving wood.
"Is everything alright, Sekuru?" Emmanuel asked, using the respectful term for elder. Rumongi turned his head slowly, his gaze unfocused for a moment before settling on Emmanuel.
His eyes were clouded, not with age, but with something else, something deeper, darker.
"The Bee is coming," Rumongi rasped, his voice thin as dry leaves rustling in the wind.
Emmanuel frowned. "Bee? What bee, Sekuru? The honeybees are plentiful this season." He attempted a light tone, trying to dispel the ominous feel that was tightening its grip.
Rumongi shook his head, a slow, deliberate movement. "Not those bees. The Silver Bee. It comes on the last day."
His words hung in the morning stillness, each syllable heavy with unspoken dread. Emmanuel felt a coldness spread through him, a stark contrast to the warming sunlight on his skin.
He knew the stories, everyone in the village did. Whispers passed down through generations, tales told in hushed tones around dying fires.
The Silver Bee. A creature of legend, a harbinger of misfortune, appearing only on the final day of a month, bringing with it not honey, but death.
He had dismissed them as old wives' tales, stories to frighten children into obedience. Now, seeing the genuine fear in Rumongi's eyes, doubt began to creep in.
"Sekuru, surely it's just a story," Emmanuel said, his voice less certain than he intended. Rumongi just stared at him, his silence more potent than any pronouncement.
Emmanuel excused himself and hurried back to his house, his mind a whirlwind of uncertainty. He found Mireille still tending the fire, the children now awake, their sleepy faces expectant.
He did not mention Rumongi's words, not wanting to alarm Mireille unnecessarily. Instead, he focused on the familiar routine, helping prepare breakfast, joking with the children, trying to project an air of normalcy that felt increasingly hollow.
But the seed of fear had been planted, and it was beginning to sprout tendrils, twisting around his heart.
The morning progressed with agonizing slowness. The usual sounds of the village, the chatter of voices, the clanging of pots, the distant bleating of goats, all seemed muted, subdued.
A heavy quiet pressed down, making each breath feel labored. People moved with a hesitant caution, their eyes darting around as if expecting something unseen to materialize.
By midday, the sun was high, beating down with its usual intensity. But the warmth felt oppressive, not comforting.
The air felt stagnant, devoid of the usual gentle breezes that stirred through the valley. Emmanuel tried to distract himself with chores, mending the fence around their small garden, but his focus wavered, his thoughts constantly returning to Rumongi's chilling words.
He noticed more people were out on their porches, or gathered in small groups in the open spaces, their faces etched with apprehension.
He saw others looking skyward, their gazes scanning the clear blue expanse, searching for something they could not name but instinctively feared.
Then, it happened. A high-pitched whine, unlike anything he had ever heard before, cut through the oppressive silence.
It started faint, almost imperceptible, then grew rapidly, escalating into a piercing, metallic shriek that seemed to vibrate in the very bones. People froze, their conversations abruptly ceasing, all eyes turning towards the source of the sound.
From the east, a glint of silver flashed in the sunlight, growing larger with terrifying speed. It was a bee, but unlike any bee Emmanuel had ever witnessed.
It was enormous, the size of a small bird, its body gleaming with a cold, metallic sheen. Its wings, too, were silver, catching the light as it flew with unnatural velocity, directly towards the village.
Panic erupted. Screams filled the air, the quiet replaced by a cacophony of terror. People scattered, running in every direction, seeking shelter, any refuge from the monstrous insect bearing down upon them.
Emmanuel grabbed Mireille and the children, pulling them inside their small house, slamming the wooden door shut.
He barred the door with a heavy wooden beam, his hands shaking. He could still hear the piercing whine of the bee, growing closer, louder. Mireille was clutching the children, her eyes wide with terror.
"What is it, Emmanuel? What is happening?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
"The Silver Bee," he said, his voice hoarse, the name tasting like ash in his mouth. "Rumongi Sekuru, he warned us." Even as he spoke, he could hear the bee directly outside, the whine transitioning into a low, menacing hum that vibrated through the walls of the house.
A metallic scratching sound followed, as if the creature was attempting to penetrate the wooden door.
He peered through a narrow crack in the wall, his heart pounding against his ribs. He saw it then, hovering just outside, its silver body gleaming in the sunlight, its multifaceted eyes like tiny black mirrors reflecting the terror of the village.
It was even more monstrous up close, its legs tipped with sharp, needle-like points, its stinger long and wickedly curved.
Then, it struck. Not the door, but the thatched roof above them. A section of the dry grass ignited instantly, bursting into flames.
The smoke, acrid and black, began to seep through the cracks in the walls, choking the air. The smell was sickeningly sweet, yet sharp, burning the nostrils and stinging the eyes.
"It's burning the house!" Mireille cried, coughing in the thickening smoke. The children began to wail, their small bodies wracked with sobs. Emmanuel knew they could not stay inside. The house was made of wood and thatch, it would burn quickly. But going outside meant facing the Silver Bee.
He made a desperate decision. He grabbed a thick blanket, soaking it quickly with water from the jug. "Wrap yourselves in this," he instructed Mireille, handing her the damp blanket. "Cover your faces, everything. We have to get out." He knew it was a gamble, a desperate attempt to survive.
He kicked open the door, the rush of fresh air momentarily clearing the smoke, but also revealing the full horror outside. The Silver Bee was still there, hovering near the burning roof, its hum a sound of triumph.
Around them, houses were ablaze, smoke billowing into the sky, painting the once-blue expanse with streaks of black. People were running, screaming, some collapsing, convulsing on the ground, their bodies twitching in agony.
Emmanuel saw Rumongi Sekuru fall just outside his own doorway, clutching at his chest, his face contorted in a silent scream. He saw a young woman stumble, her skin turning an unnatural shade of purple, froth bubbling from her lips. The poison of the Silver Bee was not just in its sting, it was in its very presence, its mere existence contaminating the air, the ground, everything around it.
He pushed Mireille and the children forward, shielding them with his body as much as possible. They ran through the burning village, dodging flames, stepping over bodies, the air thick with smoke and the sickeningly sweet, poisonous scent.
He could feel his lungs burning, his throat raw, but he kept running, driven by the primal instinct to protect his family.
They reached the edge of the village, the potato fields stretching out before them, offering a chance of escape. But the Silver Bee was not finished. It swooped down, a silver streak of death, targeting them with terrifying precision.
Emmanuel shoved Mireille and the children ahead, throwing himself in front of them, trying to create a barrier.
He felt a searing pain in his shoulder, like molten metal being poured into his flesh. The bee's stinger had pierced him.
He stumbled, falling to his knees, the pain radiating through his body, paralyzing him. He looked back, seeing Mireille and the children running, their small figures disappearing into the potato field, their cries fading in the distance.
He tried to get up, but his limbs felt heavy, unresponsive. The poison was spreading quickly, numbing his senses, stealing his strength.
He could see the Silver Bee circling above him, its hum now a triumphant drone.
He lay there, on the scorched earth, watching as the village burned, the screams of the dying fading into silence, replaced only by the crackling flames and the victorious hum of the Silver Bee.
His vision blurred, the sunlight fading, replaced by a growing darkness. He thought of Mireille, of his children, praying they would escape, that they would survive. But even as he prayed, a cold certainty settled in his heart.
The Silver Bee did not just kill individuals, it devoured entire communities, leaving nothing but ashes and despair.
And he, Emmanuel, had been left behind, a sacrifice to buy his family a fleeting chance of survival in a world now poisoned, not just by a bee, but by a deeper, more profound kind of sorrow.
The last thing he saw, before the darkness consumed him completely, was the silver gleam of the bee as it descended once more, its work in this village complete, ready to seek out another unsuspecting place on the last day of the next calendar month.
His story, like so many others, would become just another whispered tale, lost in the echoes of the wind.